


Playing With Fire

by am_bellanoire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Drama & Romance, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2019-10-21 06:52:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17637890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_bellanoire/pseuds/am_bellanoire
Summary: Struggling to cope with the tragic deaths of her parents, Hermione Granger returns to the Wizarding World with no money and no job prospects despite earning top marks during her years at Hogwarts. She arrives in Knockturn Alley after accepting a gig at a goblin owned strip club and from the moment she meets Bellatrix Black, Club Toxic's star dancer, she knows her life will never be the same. From childhood she had been warned to never play with fire but now she is content to let herself burn.





	1. Tinder

**Author's Note:**

> So, the idea of this story just sort of...happened? I took it and ran with it. The entire story has been outlined and updates will come as quickly as I can write them. For now, I'll just say weekly but could be longer, could be sooner depending on muse and inspiration. You all know how that goes *wink* 
> 
> First things first, this is an AU. AU is one of my favorite genres because it just...opens up the door for all kinds of creative thoughts and ideas. Hardly anything in this story follows canon. No Wizarding War, no Voldemort, no Horcruxes. While Hermione did attend Hogwarts, she wasn't friends with Harry and Ron. Personality wise however, I'm staying as in-character as possible giving the setting. 
> 
> Feedback would be most appreciated.
> 
> Happy Reading!

Had it really been three years? It felt like three decades while at the same time it felt like three hours.

Not much had changed that Hermione could see.

Witches and wizards still strode around the cobblestone streets of the alley decked out in robes and cloaks, decorative pointy hats, chatting idly about articles in the Prophet, the prices of cauldrons, whose child was starting Hogwarts in the fall. Children still ran around squabbling over which model broomstick was the fastest and whose Quidditch team was the best.

It might take some getting used to, she supposed, the lack of cars, parked or zooming along, or evidence of other Muggle transportation. Though to be perfectly honest, if she ever saw or even sat behind the wheel of a car again, it would be too soon. Which was lucky for her as here people popped in and out where they stood by means of Apparation, from inside the shops she could hear the swelling rush of flames where others chose to use the Floo Network. The squealing, screeching breaks of the Knight Bus could be heard if one knew what to listen for. On the Muggle side of things where rats and pigeons occupied the same space as their human counterparts, stray Kneazles and Crups hissed and barked in the shadows between the buildings and structures, out of sight, out from underfoot. Shoppers rushed about, some carrying parcels others using simple charm work to levitate their purchases, trying to take advantage of the latest sales and bargain deals before closing time. 

Diagon Alley was the same as it always had been. From the fancy, expensive town homes and gardens in the alley's northern district to the hustle and bustle of its famed shopping square in the center. Gringotts, with its austere marble facade towered over the area, a proud reminder of the wealth that generations upon generations of magical folk had accumulated over the centuries the bank had been in operation.

Funny, the brunette witch couldn't help but snort derisively, not everyone was made of galleons. 

She certainly wasn't. She had lived a happy childhood in a beautiful little house in a rather nice neighborhood. Her parents had been dentists, owning between themselves a respectable business. But the life of two family dentists had been far from the lap of luxury. There had been a roof of their heads, hot home cooked meals every night, a vacation every summer, yes. But when her Hogwarts letter had arrived, hand delivered by Professor McGonagall herself, it had brought along with it the stunning revelation that she was more than just a bushy haired bookworm in braces, but a witch to boot.

The tuition under the guise of a Muggle boarding school had certainly put a dent into the family's finances. Times had gotten rather hard. The summer holidays had stopped, her parents' hours of working had gotten longer, all to scrape up every penny to fund her magical education. It was one of the many things that had motivated her to earn the highest marks she could. She made hardly any friends save for one or two who to this day she was sure cared more about the state of their own grades and assignments by associating with her than her as an actual person with feelings. She was labeled a goody-two-shoes, a know-it-all. Some of her professors praised her, while others, particularly the hook nosed, greasy haired Potions Master regarded her as an insufferable overachiever. It had been a difficult seven years and yet, she managed to pull through, earning the moniker the 'brightest witch of her age'. 

She literally could have had any career she wanted in the Wizarding World at the time. She had been sent offers from most of the departments of the Ministry of Magic, from several wards in St. Mungo's Hospital. But in the end, Hermione decided she wanted to take a break from it all and so, she returned home to her parents, hell bent on paying them back for the near decade of generosity, love and support they had bestowed on her. And things had been looking up as they tended to do whenever disaster was sneakily lurking around the corner. 

The morning of the accident had started off relatively normal. There had been eggs and toast for breakfast, tea. The news broadcasting from the television set in the living room. Polite conversation had been made, the itineraries of the day shared. Her father had three appointments lined up - a retainer needed to be refitted, an extraction, a routine root canal. Her mother had some errands to run before heading to the office for her own appointments. Hermione would be working a six hour shift as a clerk at a bookshop in London, a job she managed to secure shortly after returning home. After the dishes were tidied her father asked if she'd wanted a ride to the shop. She had declined, content with taking the bus. Hugs and kisses, well wishes for a good day, and then her parents were out the door. Had she known it would be last time she'd ever see them alive, well, Hermione had all her life to go over what she would have, could have done differently. But that morning there had been no sign, no warning, no anticlimactic series of events that were usually present in drama films or series.

Until of course a police officer had showed up at her job some hours later to inform her that her parents' car had ended up totaled, wrapped around a telephone pole, engulfed in flames. Neither had survived. 

And in one fell swoop, she had been orphaned at nineteen years of age. Many people in both the Muggle and Wizarding world have words to describe the feeling of one's world changing, stopping on its axis. Shock, disbelief, heartbreaking, sickening, tragic. A whole horde of others that barely managed to scratch the surface. There was no word in her extensive vocabulary to begin to describe the depth of her anguish or despair, nothing she had ever experienced in life could compare to it. For the first time, she felt and was well and truly alone. 

She continued on in the Muggle world for the next two years, struggling to pay off her parents accumulated debts with the meager bookshop salary she earned but in the end it hadn't been enough. The house she had grown up in, had spent many loving years taking it all for granted had to be sold. She rented a flat in London close to the shop where she worked, had given up all things having to do with the Wizarding World. Part of her, she supposed, irrationally blamed it for taking away so much precious time she could have had with her parents. How much simpler would things have been had she not been accepted or even attended Hogwarts? Would they still be alive if she had lived a Muggle existence, if she had never been born with magic? Could she have saved them had she accepted the ride in the car that morning? As soon as disaster became evident could she have side along Apparated the three of them to safety in time? 

Hermione had nearly driven herself to insanity with these questions that had no answers. There was no chapter in any book, no spell, no amount of parchment, quill, ink and cramped hands from essay writing that could give them to her. She was sick of trying. Sick of lying to herself. When the bookshop closed down, she knew it was time to go back. There was nothing left for her in the Muggle world. She had been an only child of two only children. She had no family, nothing tying her to this side of herself anymore. But she still had her magic. It had been a long while since she had cast a spell, used her wand, or even touched an issue of the Daily Prophet The classified section left little to be desired. Menial jobs and tasks that would only bore her, that wouldn't provide enough distraction from her pain. And that was when she saw the ad that eventually did bring her plans of returning to solid reality.

She had no real experience with goblins but from her studies knew them to be notorious in their customs and ways. There was something sinister to them and Belouck had certainly embodied that. Beady eyes, a sharp toothed, lecherous grin, low raspy voice, a habit of stroking his face with pointed dirty nails in an attempt to cover up the way his attention remained fixated on her body. But he had offered her both the job and a place to live in the night club and apartment building he owned. People who knew her, whether in passing or from school, certainly her parents had they still been breathing, would surely be shocked to learn she had been reduced to stripping for a living. All those smarts, so much untapped potential. But so was the irony of life. 

Hermione knew the very moment she exited Diagon Alley and stepped into Knockturn Alley. The air was different. The aura was different. The sun seemed to have already set, spreading shadows and gloom with every step she took. There were cracks in the cobblestone, the road uneven. The windows of the shops that weren't boarded up with planks of wood were grimy. No bright colors here, crumbling bricks, gusts of cold, stale wind. Crooked stone stairs that led her deeper into an abyss that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Every internal instinct within her screamed for her to run, to get away from this place. But she ignored it and pressed onward.

Like in Diagon, there were people about. That was where the similarity ended, however. There was no hustle and bustle, no milling about, no leisurely shopping. Here people skulked, they slithered. It felt as though hundreds of eyes were following her, silently, watching, waiting to make a move. Hermione barely suppressed a shudder as she entered the residential area. Run down, shabby looking buildings. Somewhere a baby was crying loudly and she couldn't figure out if it was a human infant screeching out its needs for the world to hear, or the young of another species. Knockturn was home to witches, wizards, as well as beings and sentient creatures most shunned from 'normal' Wizarding society. It certainly was unnerving. She could hear what sounded like a fight breaking out, a glass shattering, angry voices rising in volume. The wind howling, discarded papers rustling, caught up in the draft. Water dripped from an unknown source. 

Hermione slowed her steps, cringing at the way everything seemed to echo off of the high walls. Her hand trembled as she pulled the sheet of parchment from the pocket of her worn cloak and squinted down at the address that had been written down. She had to be getting close. But then a terrifying thought entered her mind. What if Belouck had given her the wrong address? Suppose this was some sort of plot to lure her deep into Knockturn, unable to escape? What if at that very moment she was being surrounded, without even realizing it, by a group of those beady eyed creatures to be dragged off to some abandoned building for them have their own sort of goblin fun? Where no one would hear her pleas for help, or worse yet, ignore them? Her heart lurched painfully in her chest, her mouth suddenly dry. Too quickly to be casual, she looked over her shoulder. Could she make a run for Diagon Alley? Would she be chased? Why didn't she have her wand in her hand? Where was the bloody thing? 

"You look lost."

She nearly jumped out of her skin, startled by the sound of a voice that seemed to come out of nowhere. Releasing a shaky breath, her eyes focused on a witch, approaching her from across the street. Behind her, a darkly clothed wizard slipped away into the shadows. Hermione watched the witch pocket something, never breaking her stride. Her hair was wild, a sea of black curls that appeared to blend in with the dark settled heavily around them. But her complexion was pale, unblemished, a stark contrast to those curls that framed it. Eyes the color of pitch, heavily lidded, a slightly upturned nose, and full lips painted red that parted to reveal glistening white teeth. 

"Are you?" 

The words shook Hermione out of her stupor. The tone of the witch's voice was more amused than ominous, teasing rather than threatening. The timbre low and throaty with a hint of breathiness. She sucked in a gulp of air and nodded once, showing the dark witch the address on the parchment praying to a deity that more than likely didn't exist that she wasn't making a potentially lethal mistake. She flinched when the witch unexpectedly began to laugh, a high pitched sound that reverberated discordantly around the alley. 

"That old goblin has one nasty fetish for fresh meat, doesn't he. Dirty little bastard."

The shock and relief in combination was so staggering Hermione very nearly went weak in the knees. "Y-you know Belouck? So, this isn't fake, then." Of course, had she not been suddenly dizzy from the effects of the now displaced adrenaline running through her veins, she might have cringed at the term 'fresh meat'. Goblins generally weren't well liked in the Wizarding community so it wasn't as if she hadn't heard the same note of scorn in the voice of another before. 

The witch's response was a mere eye roll as she turned on her heels and began walking further along the cobblestone. Moments later when she realized Hermione hadn't moved from the spot on which she was standing, she jerked her head in a silent invitation to follow. It was here Hermione found herself faced with a choice. Follow a complete stranger to Merlin only knew where or stay where she was and perhaps fall victim to any number of the crimes regularly committed by Knockturn's inhabitants. 

She jogged over to where the witch tapped her foot with an impatient air, wrapping a lock of her hair indolently around the tip of a thick curved wand, appearing perfectly at ease surrounded by the darkness. The witch's walk was brisk with a sway to it, as if the ground below her feet was liquid rather than solid, crooked but graceful. They turned a corner abruptly and then another. Hermione's head was still spinning, her heart rate slowing but still noticeably fast. No words were exchanged until they came to a sudden stop before a brick building about four stories tall, old and crumbling as everything else in the alley. But there was more noise here, more people, sounds of boisterous revelry, the smell of cigarette smoke lingering, loud music playing, more lights charmed it seemed to represent every carnal color known. They were in the middle of Knockturn's entertainment district, well known for its particular flavor of danger and debauchery.

"Home sweet home and Toxic is just a ways up there." The witch pointed lazily northward toward the source of the noise from the bars and pubs, nightclubs, gambling halls, and dueling arenas. Before Hermione could express her confusion as to how the stranger had known where she would be working, a pair of narrow shoulders shrugged, "Belouck likes to keep his witches as close to the rabble as possible. Never you worry though, the wards will keep some of the monsters at bay. Can't say the same for the rest of this shit hole." 

The weight of it all finally started to sink in. Her parents were gone. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and whatever keepsakes she could fit in her charmed bag. This was her life now. Emotionally, physically, mentally, she was utterly exhausted. Awkwardly she shuffled her beaded bag to her left hand and offered her right hand to the witch for a shake, "I'm Hermione Granger. Thanks, I mean, thank you for -"

Her words slowly tapered off as she realized her hand had been left hanging untouched. Manners probably weren't big in Knockturn. Fine by her. She let her arm drop and turned to enter the building without another word. As her foot hit the first creaking stair that would lead her up to the third floor, Hermione could hear the witch's heels clicking against the cobblestone, going back in the direction from where they had come. Hermione paused as she heard an airily teasing parting remark, 

"Hope you know a good warming charm, pet, it gets awfully cold at night."


	2. Spark

Though she had grown up an only child, Hermione had had seven years to get used to sharing a room. The girls' dorms in Gryffindor tower had been a typical domain of teenage girls, hardly what a quiet, bookworm would consider a place of refuge. She had had no interest in the giggling and gossiping, she had never wanted to share clothes and lip gloss, or sneak attempts out to visit boyfriends after curfew. She had not connected well with her roommates, had found them to be silly and foolish and there had been no love lost.  


As she entered the one bedroom flat, Hermione silently braced herself for whatever and whomever she would be sharing living quarters with. A pretty blonde wearing an expression of utter serenity and scraps of fabric that could hardly pass for clothing all but floated into her line of vision. 

“You must be Hermione, Belouck's new girl,” the witch's tone matched the blithe look on her voice, all airiness and caprice, “I'm Luna and I'll just be another moment in the shower. Make yourself at home.”

Her new roommate disappeared into what Hermione assumed was the bathroom, leaving the brunette to survey her surroundings. The scent of incense and burning candle wax was overwhelming. Plants of both magical and non-magical nature sat potted in soil in nearly every corner. Balls of conjured light illuminated the sparse space. There wasn't much to look at by means of furniture. A small dingy kitchen, a living room with a dusty looking, threadbare sofa. A coffee table upon which copies of The Quibbler were out on display. A closed door to the left and another to the right, one being the bathroom, the other the sole bedroom which was obviously Luna's. Cracked grimy windows overlooked the alley below, doing not much of anything to keep out the noises of revelry or the draft. The wood floor creaked with each step she took. To be perfectly honest, it all looked like an ordinary, run down, cheap flat. But she could feel the pulse of magic in the walls, the wards the dark haired witch who had helped her find her way must have meant. 

There was nothing really for her to unpack and so Hermione plopped down on the sofa, resting her elbows on her knees, running her fingers through her disheveled hair. Even if she was out of practice, she supposed she might be able to transfigure the sofa into a somewhat comfortable bed. Perhaps if she saved up enough she could buy a small bookshelf. Put her own touch on things as this was now her home too. In a few hours she would be debuting at the club. She had no experience when it came to...entertaining. But she had always had a knack for trying her best and succeeding so perhaps this temporary situation would be even more temporary and she would be back on her feet in no time. 

Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. But no, wishful thinking would include something more fanciful, something like finally waking up and realizing the last three years had just been a nightmare. 

“I'm having some friends over soon.” 

Luna's voice startled Hermione out of her thoughts and she glanced up to see the blonde now clad in a bathrobe, her hair wet and stringy from her shower. She was still wearing that same not all together there expression, but her cornflower blue eyes held a depth to them that made Hermione realize the witch could never be classified as dimwitted or an idiot. There was a whole hell of a lot of street smarts, and something else, something ethereal in that gaze of hers. Never mind the fact the brunette had hoped to rest a bit seeing as how she would be doing Merlin only knew what tonight at her new job. Just the same, she found herself nodding. 

“They tend to drop by for a visit whenever they're in London, I guess to make sure Knockturn hasn't devoured me or some such thing,” Luna mused, her lips quirking up at the corners, “They'll like you, they were in Gryffindor too.”

Hermione was taken aback. Most people who met her in the Wizarding world could not quite place her house, especially within the first few minutes of them meeting and the fact that this stranger who she would be living with could and had done so with nothing but a glance and few exchanged words was odd. 

“Yes. Well. Right. Erm, thanks?” Because, honestly what else was there to say exactly. 

“Oh come now, no need to be awkward. What other house would you have been in? Your presence is too big to be a Hufflepuff,” Luna flitted about, her wand in hand as she cast silent cleaning charms about the flat never deviating from her thought process, “Slytherin would be a laugh, no offense. The world can tell you're a Muggleborn. And I'd have known you had you been in my house, or the other way around.”

It was strange to be read like a book or newspaper. Did she really carry herself like a Muggleborn? True she had spent three years in the Muggle world, and yeah, she did often forgo robes and cloaks for t-shirts and jeans. She didn't consider her presence to be overtly large, sometimes she could easily slip into the background. Gryffindors were known for being boisterous, brash, aggressive sometimes and those adjectives didn't readily describe her, unless of course talk of academics and logic was up for discussion, or if she was frustrated, annoyed, angry enough, she could be quite loud then, combative even. But she had been a hat stall, a short one but a stall just the same. She could have very easily been in Ravenclaw. In fact, she was rather shocked to learn that Luna had been an eagle. The only books in the flat were the copies of The Quibbler from what she could see. The witch had an earthy, eccentric vibe about her that didn't at first glance seem compatible with wit and intelligence. But Ravenclaw was a house for creativity and innovation as well. 

And there definitely was more to the blonde than what immediately met the eye..

Brows still furrowed, a knock at the door halted any rebuttal Hermione might have given. With a flick of her wand, Luna unlocked the door. Without even asking who it was or even pausing from her task. 

“Oi, Lu, I need to borrow your compact,” a brusque, slightly nasal voice filled the space, “I'm still waiting for the custom pallet I ordered from some Witch Weekly ad. Bloody messenger owls need to shake the frost from their sodding feath – is that you Granger? Merlin's arse, no one's heard from you in ages, what bush did you crawl out from under, hmm?”

Even without the use of her surname, Hermione would have recognized the witch who unceremoniously entered the flat from anywhere. They had shared a dorm for seven years after all. Dirty blonde hair, slim but curvy frame, broad facial features that were a bit too widely spaced to be classically pretty covered in layers of makeup despite her request to borrow more. An attitude that would make drawing one's nails down a chalkboard more amenable. 

“Lavender,” Hermione deadpanned, the exhaustion she had been feeling returning ten fold. She hoped that this wasn't one of Luna's guest. There wasn't enough gold anyone could offer her to put up with the girl in any capacity. 

“Wow, I mean Belouck said he was bringing on someone new but I'd have never guessed you. What happened? Need the money to buy out a library or something?” The words were barbed behind a phony smile and made Hermione exhale harshly through flared nostrils. 

“Not at all.” 

She wasn't even going to waste her breath going back and forth with someone like Lavender. It was pointless, something she had learned early on at school. She couldn't believe her luck or lack thereof, really. Was it not enough that fate had dealt her a crushing blow, resulting in her now having to live in what was considered the slums of the Wizarding London, working in a lewd nightclub to earn a few Galleons that she also had to deal with Lavender bloody Brown, someone who she wouldn't have minded never having to lay eyes on again.

Luna, seeming to sense the tension in the air quickly retrieved the requested items and air kissed Lavender's cheek. “See you later Lav.” 

With a smirk in Hermione's direction, Lavender left the flat, clearly pleased with herself thinking she had won the battle of wills the brunette had not even volunteered for. 

“Sorry about her, she's a bit much to swallow sometime, yeah?”

“You've no idea.” 

When Luna's guests did arrive sometime later, Hermione braced herself. After the not so pleasant surprise that came with the realization that not only would Lavender be one of her new co-workers but a neighbor on top of it all, she had no idea what to expect. The three that entered the flat were familiar. She knew them all by name and by face. The two redheads were brother and sister – members of the notoriously large Weasley family. Ginevra, or Ginny was a year younger than her while Ron and the dark haired, bespectacled wizard Harry had been in her own. She remembered them well, losing house points, getting into all sorts of mischief, slacking off in classes. The three had also been popular, all playing for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Harry being the youngest Seeker in Merlin only knew how long and former captain. As Quidditch had never been one of Hermione's interests, she hadn't attended many games. 

“So, Hermione, where've you been all this time. Smart bird like you, I'd thought you be somewhere in the Ministry?” 

This rather blunt question came from Ron, who Hermione noticed almost as soon as he'd arrived and plopped down on the sofa a bit too close for comfort had taken a bit of interest in her. And that was putting it kindly. Though she hadn't said much beyond a polite greeting and small talk. 

“I decided to move back home with my parents, spend some time with them after being away at Hogwarts for so long. They...died in a car accident three years ago and...”

The brunette bit her lip as the quietly spoken words trailed off. It was the first time, she realized, she had spoken of the accident to anyone other than Muggles. Though it was something that frequently occupied her thoughts, her dreams, somehow speaking the words out loud made them even more _real_. 

Her heart thudded dully in her chest, her stomach churning as the energy in the room shifted following her confession. Ron sat back on the sofa, putting a noticeable distance between them as his ears turned pink. Harry cleared his throat, fidgeting with his glasses. Luna, well Luna just stared at her in that somewhat detached way of hers but she didn't appear shocked or embarrassed like the others did. She tilted her head in a curious fashion and hummed softly. 

“My mother died when I was nine,” she said at last, “Potions explosion. It was rather horrible and I saw it happen.”

Harry cleared his throat again and moved around in his seat for a moment before adding,” My parents passed away too. They were Aurors and a raid went wrong. Both took the Killing Curse, dad trying to shield mum. I was two and was raised by my godfather.”

Hermione sighed and shook her head, narrowing her eyes around the prickling sensation that was the precursor to tears she didn't want to let fall. It was _strange_ to think that she wasn't the only one in the room to have suffered such a loss. Comforting in a way that she couldn't quite describe. As if she had finally found someone who understood _how_ she felt. And Merlin, they had been _children_ at the time. 

A spell of heavy silence had descended, everybody with perhaps the exception of Luna unsure of how to break it. It was Ron's sister though who let out a huff that could have been a sigh or a scoff and she suddenly jumped up from where she had been perched on Harry's lap. 

“Dunno about you lot but all this talk about death is getting a little depressing, yeah? Let's lighten up the mood a bit. Get this party started.” Ginny crowed, producing a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey that had been cleverly concealed in her robes, setting it down with a solid thump on the coffee table.

“Read my mind, love,” Luna mused and Hermione's eyes widened as she took in the took in the sight of small plastic bag in her hand, “Hermione?" 

She knew what the iridescent, off-white powder was even after three years in the Muggle world. It went by a few names – Pixie Dust, Dust, or Doxie. A narcotic that induced a variety of feelings from euphoria to calm, to bouts of creativity and sharper focus, to drowsiness. As a student and prefect in her Hogwarts days she had heard whispers about the stuff, had collared many a sixth or seventh year who went up to the Astronomy Tower after curfew for a smoke. She had never beeen tempted but after three years in the Muggle world and occasionally dabbling a bit in a similar, albeit _greener_ drug, she nodded.

For her whole life, or the majority of it anyway, Hermione had prided herself on being able to resist temptations and peer pressure, of wanting to fit in. She had taken the criticism of being a 'goody-two-shoes' and other, less kinder nomenclatures in stride. But that was _before_ she had been faced with the heartbreaking realization that life wasn't always _good_ , it wasn't about simply saying 'no'. It was the understanding that some people needed to escape, needed a buoy against a nightmarishly raging sea. Such was the case now with Harry freely speaking about the pressure of becoming an Auror, to walk in his late parents' footsteps, to do them proud, everyone in his life expecting nothing less from him. Ron, rather boisterously declaring that one day he would have a million Galleons in the vaults and show up his older brothers. Ginny and her giggles and the way she writhed against Harry on his lap, whispering things that everyone in the room could hear, words that might make a whore blush just because she was tried of feeling like she couldn't be _herself_ when everyone expected her to be content raising a passel of children like her mother.

Hermione couldn't believe how naive she had been. 

Feeling pressure on her thigh, she glanced down, her movements somewhat slow and sluggish to see Ron's hand there. But she didn't brush it away. 

She felt like she was floating. And after being weighed down for so long, from her own thoughts, her dreams, her problems, her grief, it felt _nice_ , if only for a little while to feel free.


	3. Kindle

Harry, Ginny, and Ron had departed with promises to see them dance tonight and then the two had been left alone in their flat to get ready. After a much needed shower, Hermione had realized she had nothing in her enchanted beaded bag that might be considered appropriate – and how ironic, that word – attire for a Goblin owned strip club. But Luna had told her not to worry about that, that there would be something she could borrow in the dressing room of the club. And then, they'd been off, Hermione still buzzing a bit from her Doxie high. 

Strangely enough, Hermione didn't _feel_ nervous. Yes, she knew she was out of her element and sure she had stuck so close to Luna on the walk to the club that she was practically piggybacking the witch, and true, she was clutching her wand so tight her hand was cramping up. But she wasn't exactly nervous. She didn't know what to expect tonight, had no idea if she would even be working, what the crowd might be like, or the atmosphere. Judging by the rampant rowdiness going on around them though, she might could figure it out. 

Luna appeared almost perfectly at ease as she made her way around drunken wizards, catcalls, broken glass, and the smell of alcohol and waste. With her wand tucked behind her ear and the same aloof expression Hermione had come to associate with the blonde she could have easily been going on a stroll through a park. But again, there was an alertness in her eyes, a _knowing_ within the depths that made the brunette feel somewhat safe. 

They entered through the side entrance of Club Toxic and almost at once, Hermione's lungs were assaulted by the pungent smell of cigarette smoke. It wasn't at all like the exhaust from Muggle tobacco, it burned purple and there was a slightly sweet undertone to it. But it made the brunette's nose wrinkle just the same. Her heart beat in time with the pounding bass coming from the club's upper level as she and Luna descended down into what she assumed was the basement. 

The dressing room was cramped, far more so than any establishment of magic Hermione could ever remember being in. Wizarding camping tents had more space.

Candlelight and mirrors, the scent of smoke heavier here that combined with perfume and alcohol, something stale. Curtains and lace, frills and feathers, a grimy carpeted floor, raucous laughter and foul language that rose above that pounding bass from upstairs. 

“Lulu, love, who's your friend?” 

Oh. She had been spotted. 

Hermione's gaze landed on the witches sprawled out in the room in various stages of undress that made Luna's pre-shower get up earlier seem prudish. Full breasts and pink tupped nipples, curves and torsos, legs that went on for miles. She could feel herself blushing and struggled to avert her gaze. But really, there was nowhere safe to look. 

“Erm, I'm Hermione. Belouck hired me..”

“And I'm still trying to figure out _why_ ,” Lavender's voice cut through her embarrassment and Hermione locked eyes on the witch she had disliked since her very first night at Hogwarts. “This isn't something you can study, Granger. There's no _book_ out there than can teach you how to be _sexy_. No matter how many times you read it.” She sneered and took a drag from the cigarette she held between the index and middle finger of her left hand. 

“Oh, leave her, Lav,” another voice chimed in but there was something cutting and sneaky in this one's tone as well. She, like Lavender, wasn't what one might consider classically pretty, but her straight dark hair, slanted green eyes, and full mouth made up for the pug like shape of her nose. “Pansy. You remember me, don't you, Granger?” 

Pansy Parkinson was another familiar face, a popular girl who had been in her year as well, though in Slytherin house. Another similarity she had with Lavender is that she had been one of the one's who had taunted her mercilessly in school and there was absolutely no love lost between the two. The difference being that Pansy didn't hide behind false smiles, underhanded compliments, and catty barbs. And Hermione could almost respect it. Blame the old tension between Gryffindors and Slytherins. Though judging by the way Pansy was lounging on Lavender's lap, tracing idle patterns on her exposed chest with her fingernails, it appeared the petty rivalry between snakes and lions meant nothing outside of the castle walls.

An older witch, Hermione guessed to be at least ten or fifteen years her senior sent her a dry wave and downed a shot of Firewhiskey. “Alecto. Madam Fury s'what they call me on stage, though.” She snorted and poured herself another shot, her naked breasts that had seen perkier days swaying as she moved, “Shame, young thing like you having to do this for a couple Sickles.”

“A young thing like _her_ ,” Lavender screeched, “We all went to school together, you old crone!” 

“Difference 'tween young and _fresh_ , yeah Lav?” Alecto bit back, not even rising to the taunt at her age. There was something quite tired in her glassy grey eyes if one knew what to look for, as if she had seen far too many things and had bottled them up in the stormy depths. She had a hard sort of face. A short nose and high cheekbones, a thin mouth that could look cruel if she twisted it just right. Her hair was a mousy brown though, unimpressive even as it was left unbound, falling past her shoulders. She was rather striking still and if she were standing, Hermione guessed she would be quite tall for a witch. 

The brunette felt herself being led to an empty seat before a cracked mirror as Lavender and Alecto began to squabble like alley cats, tossing insults at one another like hexes from a wand. 

“Pay them no mind. It helps you know,” Luna murmured as she began to unpack a makeup bag, “Gets them all riled up and makes the night go easier. Oh, I think this color might go well with your skin tone.” 

Makeup was not Hermione's forte whatsoever. In fact, the last time she could remember wearing any eye shadow or blush or lipstick had been for the Yule Ball back in the fourth year. And even then it had been minimal. She still managed to cause a scene however. She thought about Luna's words, realizing that in some strange way, it made sense. She wasn't naive enough to believe that having to take one's clothes off for money wasn't something that did take quite a lot out of someone. And if snippy remarks and insults, a couple cigarettes, and drink helped the other girls mentally prepare for being looked at like slabs of meat or sperm deposits, then she couldn't judge. Then again, she always did manage to consider things from a logical stand point. When other people were involved. Not more so for herself. Or she wouldn't be here, would she? 

Luna proved to be a genius when it came to identifying what shades worked. Hermione could only observe herself in the mirror, stunned really at how pretty she actually was. It wasn't something she thought about much. She considered herself attractive, sure, but was not vain in the slightest. But the former Ravenclaw seemed hellbent on bringing out this side of her. Her eyes, honey brown seemed to pop _just_ that much more with the aid of a smoky eye shadow and heavy kohl liner, they looked darker. Sensual even. The shade of lipstick was a bolder red than she could have ever imagined wearing. And she had no idea what potion or cream Luna had applied to her hair to make it wave rather than frizz. Something from Hogsmeade, probably, that smelled of flowers. 

“Well, look at _you_. If you're not some filthy goblin's wet dream, I don't know what is.” 

The energy in the room shifted much like how the air changed before a thunderstorm. Hermione had not noticed how quiet things had gone, so focused on her reflection in the mirror but now she saw that someone was standing behind her. Pitch black eyes that appraised her, seeming to go _through_ , dissect her; wild, sable hair that was like a night sea of curls, full red lips that were fixed in a pout. Flawless alabaster skin and quite possible the most beautifully symmetrical face the brunette had ever seen. 

The witch from the alley. 

Hermione's heart thudded painfully in her chest and she squirmed a bit in her seat, unsure of what to say but unable to look away. 

“Guess you found your way all right.” 

The witch turned and sauntered over to where Alecto sat, plucking the glass from her hands and downing the contents with a sigh. Hermione hadn't realized she was holding her breath until a dull ache in her lungs reminded her to inhale. She coughed. 

“You're late again Bella,” she heard Lavender say but there was something in the witch's tone Hermione had never heard before. She sounded almost _shy_ , demure. Nothing at all like her usual snotty self. And the glare the dark haired witch, _Bella_ , sent her way made Lavender positively cower in her seat. 

Interesting.

Bella seemed to suck the very air out of the room. Now, the laughter and banter was much quieter, practically nonexistent compared to what the noise level had been like earlier. The bass from above was still pounding but the effect of it wasn't quite the same. Not with Bella standing there, a Doxie joint in her hand, the smoke spiraling snake-like around her. Luna finished up with her hair and makeup before starting on her own. All the while Hermione could feel those black eyes watching her every move. 

The dark witch ashed the hand rolled cigarette where she stood, the flaky grey powder vanishing before it could land on the carpet. She tilted her head as if trying to solve a complicated riddle, allowing her gaze to rove shamelessly over Hermione who licked her bottom lip in a nervous gesture. 

“Best remember what happened to that other silly little girl who played with a box of tricks she couldn't handle, right pet?”

She then disappeared deeper into the room, another part of the basement the brunette hadn't even known existed and a door snapped shut. The click of the lock turning into place heralded the dressing room bursting to life once more.

“When did you meet Bellatrix?” Luna asked, her blue eyes wide, her expression almost alarmed. 

“She spoke to her like she knew her!” 

“Guess you're not as prudish as you're letting on Granger, trying to sneak your way to the top aren't you?”

“I worked here two years before she even so much as _breathed_ in my direction!” 

Hermione's head was spinning as if she had downed half a bottle of Firewhiskey. She didn't even know where to start in replying to the shocked questions thrown her way. Yes, she had met _Bellatrix_ but had had no idea the witch even worked for Belouck, let alone clearly was in charge here as far as the dancers went. No one who wasn't someone could command complete attention of a room no matter how small it was. She didn't know what to make of the encounter, nor the clear affects it had had on her body. Merlin, she felt as if she might be running a fever. 

The door to the dressing room burst open and a squat Goblin entered, a cigar in his mouth, his beady eyes lingering lewdly over the witches in the room before settling on Hermione, who swallowed and looked away. 

“On in ten,” Belouck croaked, his voice guttural and reedy as if he were speaking around a glob of phlegm, “Alecto first, then Pansy, Lavender, Luna,” he sneered, his sharp teeth glistening with saliva, “then the new girl, and then closing act is as it always it.”

It went without saying that Bellatrix would be the one going on last. And from what she knew of places like this, they tended to save the best, the most desired out last.

“New girl.” 

Hermione turned her attention back on the Goblin, trying to ignore the way the smoke from his cigar made him appear bigger, threatening. “Y-yes?” It took her two tries to get out. 

“Stage name?” 

Stage name? She hadn't thought about what she would go by on stage. Which was silly. She knew she couldn't go by her proper name. Hermione was hardly something one would call a stripper. And even deeper than that, it felt wrong to use the name her parents had given her to get naked for a bunch of men in a seedy Knockturn Alley club. Even if they would never know. Still. Bellatrix's parting words came to mind. Silly little girl. Box of tricks she couldn't handle. Right. 

“Call me Pandora,” the brunette replied.


	4. Smolder

Hermione's buzz had worn off. And the nerves had finally set in. Standing at the top of the stairs leading out of the dressing room onto the main floor, alone, looking as the club's top dancer had claimed – a filthy goblin's wet dream – her hair teased to perfection, her makeup flawless, donning a shimmering red one piece that showed off more skin that she could remember revealing outside of taking a shower, the brunette was positively trembling. 

Following Belouck's entrance and the itinerary of the night, she had watched the dancers – Alecto, Pansy, Lavender, and Luna finish their drinks, stub out their cigarettes and head upstairs. As she was going on second to last and her new roommate had whispered in her ear that that meant she was more so _watching_ for the first few hours of her shift, Hermione had taken purchase at the top of the stairs and done just that. She had watched the witches entertain the club goers, hand out drinks made by the goblin at the bar, flirt with wizards and male members of other species, smile and giggle, give private dances as one by one they took their turn on the raised platform at the front of Club Toxic. 

They were all introduced, by a disembodied voice, by their stage names – Madam Fury. Poison Ivy, Cupid's Dart, and La Lune. She supposed what should be the most surprising was the fact that they each incorporated magic in their performance. This was not simply getting undressed in front of what seemed like a hundred pair of lascivious eyes. Their wands were drawn and spells were cast, both figuratively and literally. And the crowd was all but devouring it, coins in silver and gold raining down on the stage, especially when Pansy had transfigured a sprig of Devil's Snare out of one of the feather's she plucked from her outfit and allowed herself to be wrapped around and around in it, like an old Muggle top, spinning and weaving in place, and when she had finally been released she was clad in nothing but three remaining feathers, large enough to be Hippogriff or perhaps Abraxan wing, covering her nipples and the evidently hairless cleft between her legs. 

Hermione was _sweating_. 

“Boo.”

She startled at the low, breathy voice right by her ear, nearly jumping out of her skin that felt suddenly too tight for her body, whirling around with a sharp gasp. 

“Poor bitty baby,” Bellatrix crooned on a chuckle, her tone darkly amused as she edged even closer to the brunette, completely engulfing what little was left of her personal space, “You're a wreck, aren't you little one?” 

She couldn't help but bristle at the condescending tone. “I'm twenty one, thank you. Hardly a baby.”

“Oh, but you are,” the dark haired witch scoffed with a roll of her eyes, “No shame in it, really. Even the drooling, toothless little maggots have to learn to walk on their own two feet someday. Have you thought about your theme yet?”

Hermione blinked, her brows furrowing in confusion. Bellatrix carried on as if she was not aware of the lack of response. 

“Alecto favors smoke, white smoke specifically. The twits, well you can tell by their names they tend to go the route of Herbology. And your dizzy little roommate, she likes shades of blue, stars, the moon. Pretty shit like that.” 

Comprehension dawned then. “Oh, you mean the use of magic on stage. I didn't know that was --”

“Surely you don't think you're going to go out there and just _wiggle_ around.” With a snort, Bellatrix stepped away and Hermione released a breath of air she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Against her better judgment she watched the witch unspool onto one the chairs, a doxie joint dangling from her hand. Merlin, it was decidedly sinful the way she appeared so elegant even in such a dingy looking place. The smoke from the joint rose snakelike in the air, the ashes falling to the stained carpet only to disappear in thin air before they touched down. The entire scene coupled with that infernal patronizing note in her rich and husky voice caused the brunette to shudder despite herself, “You can't even do that right, can you? Shaking like a bag of bones the way you are. Not so attractive, pet.”

The blush that suddenly colored Hermione's cheeks was one born of equal parts embarrassment and ire. The embarrassment couldn't be helped, not really. Given the situation, the environment, the fact that Bellatrix spoke as if she were peeling layers off of the her with her tongue alone. 

“You are so pink. I bet this is the worst thing to happen to you in your life. Taking your clothes off for a bunch of perverted wizards and _beings_ too no less. Scandalous.” 

Ire was a much more acceptable emotion than shyness and nervousness. She didn't want to dwell on the fact that now that Bellatrix was no longer practically pressed against her, she felt emboldened. 

“You've no idea what's happened in my life!” Hermione snapped, a lick of fire heating the words evoking a bark of laughter from the dark witch that sounded far too pleased. 

“Oooh, what sharp little claws you have when you're rubbed the wrong way, kitten. And here I thought you'd been in Ravenclaw.”

“I was a Gryffindor.”

“Mmm. It _did_ take a fair bit of feathers to suss out my reference so quickly though. Pandora, huh? Yeah, I think you're a half breed. Griffons are part eagle, aren't they?”

More irritated than she could remember being in a long time, Hermione huffed and turned her eyes back to the stage where Luna's act seemed to be halfway done. “Don't you have to get ready? You're going on after me and good Merlin, I think I'm next.”

In the next instant, she felt that same sensation of all the air being sucked from her lungs, the hair on the back of her neck standing in, the pores in her skin prickling and she knows seconds before she turns that Bellatrix has approached her again. And if it's even possible, she was standing even closer than she was earlier, Hermione can smell her now, her perfume something dark and heady, intoxicating. So close, she could see that her eyes truly were black and not just a dark brown. So close that she could see the steady throb of her pulse beating beneath the column of her swan-like neck. 

“One thing you need to learn if you are going to work here, pet,” Bellatrix lifted her hand and drew a caress down the brunette's flushed cheek, “The night doesn't _begin_ without me. All of them, they come to see me. I like to take my sweet time, get them all worked up.” Hermione felt as if she was going to drown in that impossibly deep gaze. And Bellatrix certainly wasn't helping by leaning forward ever so slightly and for a maddening moment, Hermione thought the witch was going to kiss her. “When they're squirming in their seats, pulling out their last pieces of gold, sweating out all the liquor they've lost track of drinking, their cocks jumping in anticipation, only _then_ do I slither in and suck them dry.” 

With a harsh cackle, Bellatrix pinched the cheek she had just been touching hard and stepped back so suddenly, Hermione actually stumbled. Before she could gather her bearings, the dark witch disappeared into her private dressing room, leaving the brunette gasping, her heart pounding, with an embarrassing ache between her legs. 

She was going to lose her bloody mind. 

“Pandora. On in five.” 

Or maybe she already had. 

It was strange, Hermione thought as she made her way to the stage. She was nervous, so nervous, her stomach flipping wildly as if she would be sick. Her heart trying to eject itself out of her chest cavity. She was shaking. But beside all of that, as she stood in the middle of the stage, the overwhelming scents of smoke and sweat and alcohol invading her senses, the lights so bright she could barely make out the faces of the men in the crowd, she was filled with the desire to prove herself. That was just her nature. As a student in school, she had been the same way. The Muggleborn witch that so many people had looked down on, expected next to nothing. She had shown them all, proved them wrong. And she wanted to do the same tonight. Especially after that insane run in with the club's top girl. 

Wand in hand, Hermione summoned an empty chair to the stage as the music started. The bass was almost deafening, pounding so hard she could feel it under her skin. Licking her lips, she started to move. Slowly at first, using the chair as a prop, circling it in what she prayed was a seductive manner. The wolf whistles and jeers from the crowd however spurred her and with a toss of her hair, she transfigured the chair into a box. 

It was time to become Pandora. 

The tempo of the music picked up, the beat fervent, pulsing and Hermione forgot her nerves. She let her subconscious take over. All the pain, the frustration, emotions from the past three years coming to the forefront and she threw all of that into her performance, gyrating around the box to the music, the crowds cheers in the background. Just as it reached a crescendo, she flicked her wand and the box opened. 

Shadows poured out, smoky and transparent and began to encircle her. Glints of gold being thrown onto the stage caught in the light as the shadows shrouded her vision and she tried to fight them off. She was outnumbered, she could feel them pulling at her, trying to overtake her, ripping at her outfit, bearing more skin, mussing her hair. The crowd was practically on their feet now and Hermione let go. 

“Another round of applause for Pandora, gentlemen, in her debut at Club Toxic!” 

Her outfit reduced to tatters, her hair windswept and wild, her face flushed with exhilaration, her chest heaving, Hermione smiled at the tremendous ovation. She almost forgot she was in a strip club and more than half of the patrons were probably envisioning her bent over and naked, driving themselves into her from behind. The Galleons littering the stage said enough. It was one of the most erotic experiences she had ever had. 

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of dark curls and pale skin but before she could focus on it, the shadow was gone. 

Her smile widened.


End file.
